by Joanne Rock
His eyes darkened to midnight blue, smoldering her as he met her gaze. “You are turning into a force to be reckoned with, woman.”
The notion thrilled her to her toes. “Let’s start with the shirt, please.”
His jacket long ago dispensed with, Duke slid his arms from his shirt and tossed it.
Amanda ate him up with her eyes. It had been far too long since she’d seen him naked.
His tie still dangled from his neck, but before he could tear that off, too, Amanda used it to pull him to her for another kiss.
His mouth opened to hers instantly. He claimed her lips for his own and feasted, chasing all thoughts from her head and leaving her only with the knowledge that she wanted him.
Now.
Her time for games had just run out.
13
DUKE PULLED AWAY by a fraction of an inch, allowing a whisper of the night air to wend its way between them. “I’m going to make a last-ditch effort to be a gentleman, Amanda.”
Stars winked overhead, tiny lights in the sky she’d hardly ever noticed among Manhattan’s dense forest of skyscrapers. Here, in a more residential neighborhood of Brooklyn, Amanda saw the night with new eyes.
“Don’t you dare.” She hooked one ankle around the back of Duke’s calf and anchored herself to him. The inside of her thigh pressed against the outside of his, allowing her to feel the play of hard muscle beneath his trousers. “You’re going nowhere.”
His low groan satisfied her more than a feature in Women’s Wear Daily. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.
“What about the lounger six feet behind you?” he murmured, sliding his fingers down her thigh. “I could take you there.”
She unhooked her ankle from his leg and shuffled backward, pulling him with her, but never breaking body contact. “Well why didn’t you say so?”
When the backs of her calves bumped into smooth wood, Amanda turned around so that Duke stood in front of the lounger. Gently, she pushed his shoulders down.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she whispered, hoping she didn’t lose her nerve to push her daring to the limit.
“Comfortable is not something I’m really capable of at the moment.” Still, he stretched out on the lounger and held his arms out to her.
She shook her head and allowed her open blouse to slither down her arms into a heap of white cotton on the cement. Cool breeze wafted over her bare skin.
He let out a soft whistle, giving her courage in spite of her jitters. She’d spent half a lifetime hiding her body under a mountain of clothes. It felt glorious to shed her clothes now, to claim pride in her feminine form.
She might still possess the generous curves shunned by skinny models, but Duke Rawlins didn’t seem to be complaining.
In fact, the way his blue eyes fastened themselves to her bra, she had every reason to suspect he liked what he saw.
Nevertheless, she wasn’t about to give him the whole show at once. She’d learned a thing or two about stripping in her awkward attempt to make a seductive video. Now she knew it paid to turn away from the audience when unfastening a bra.
Pivoting, Amanda gave Duke her back while she unclasped the front hook of her bra and let the straps slip down her arms.
Was it her imagination or could she hear Duke gnashing his teeth as her bra hit the floor?
She peeked over her bare shoulder, her hands cupping her breasts. Not that he could have seen them anyway.
Sure enough, his jaw clenched to granite.
“Amanda.” He practically growled the word at her.
“Yes?” She teased him with a smile, a wriggle of her bottom.
“I might have to take you in on indecent exposure charges unless you flash me a little glimpse, honey.”
Oh, this was too fun.
“That sounds like blackmail to me. Definitely abuse of authority.” Careful to cover her breasts with one arm, she twisted just enough to pull down the zipper on the back of her skirt.
“I think you’re the one abusing an authority. I’m in some serious pain—wow.” He stopped talking when she shimmied her way out of her skirt to reveal her black panties and lace garters.
She allowed her hands to fall to her sides and turned to face him.
His gaze made her feel beautiful.
“What were you saying, Detective?” she prompted.
He shook his head. “I was just saying that even if your outfit was illegal five minutes ago, it’s not any more. At least not in my book.”
She sauntered over to him, walking straight into the fire of his gaze. She wanted to feel the singe, to do a little scorching of her own.
He met her at the end of the lounger, pulled her to her knees and ground their bodies together. They fell back into the damp vinyl cushions, sliding their way around the chair. Her elbow bumped the armrest. His knee flung over one edge.
None of it mattered.
Amanda cared only for the delicious press of him against her, the crush of hard muscle against willing flesh.
His hands rubbed over her, branding her with his touch, claiming every inch of her.
He tugged the front of one garter strap.
“These are hot.” Toying the clasp, he flicked it open with his thumb. “And very wicked to keep you locked away from me.”
His hand roamed the front of her bare thigh, then slid over her hip to examine the strap on her backside.
She arched against him. “So free me.”
And he did.
His fingers stroked her breasts, splayed over her belly, skimmed the lace of her panties until she lifted herself toward him, mindlessly seeking his caress.
She caught glimpses of the stars and the skyline through her slitted eyelids, pinpoints of light in a world that consisted only of him. The cool air wrapped around them, powerless to infiltrate the heat they generated on the lounger, turning to steam in the damp chill of the night.
Duke knew he’d never get enough of her. His hands skated over every silken inch of her, and he only wanted more. He teased her breasts, drawing her into his mouth while he squeezed the insides of her thighs, until he couldn’t take another minute.
When at last, he slid one finger inside her, she came undone with a shattering cry.
He gathered her to him, shielding her body with his, absorbing her quivers until she quieted.
Only then did he ease his way out of his pants, fishing a condom from his pocket as he did. In a fit of hopeless optimism he’d shoved two in there when he’d left her to pour their wine.
He didn’t have a chance to use them, however.
Amanda stole that task, slowly wrapping her hand around him to unroll the latex.
Her hair flowed around her shoulders like a veil, hiding her face. He guessed she was studying him, however, a notion which made his blood surge all the more.
She was on a mission to take control tonight and Duke would have to be a fool to object. He held himself still while she straddled him, but he lost it when she started to edge her way down his shaft.
Her silken walls clutched him, made him forget his determination to let Amanda have her way.
He rose up to hold her in his arms, steering their movements until they found a rhythm to please them both. They rocked the lounger, the rooftop, each other until they soared together, straight into the stars that had witnessed the whole thing.
Duke buried himself in her, replete. Whole.
He held her among the lounger’s cushions long after, until the chill began to penetrate his brain. Until the ramifications of the mind-blowing sex began to sink in.
Duke had no idea how an uptown girl like Amanda could hide such a brazen firestarter under her designer outfits, and he didn’t care.
She’d stripped his willpower and all his best intentions when she’d shimmied out of her tight skirt, leaving him panting in her wake and trying like hell to keep up with her.
And she thought he was bold?
Amanda gave new meaning to the word.
Of course, she didn’t look very bold with her hands curled under her cheek in sleep beside him.
In the dull glow of light from the street lamps below them, she looked like what she was—a sweet, smart woman who had the misfortune of being born into a mob family.
But Duke wouldn’t screw up with her this time. Now, he had a plan of action.
As he carried her through the brownstone and tucked her into his bed for the night, Duke knew if he kept her with him, he could keep her safe.
She’d realize that her father needed to be responsible for his own actions, but that it didn’t have to reflect on her.
Duke would make sure of it.
AMANDA AWOKE EARLY, especially considering the acrobatics of the night before. She gave a contented stretch alongside Duke, warm despite her nakedness, wrapped in his arms and blankets.
She wanted to lay there a little longer, but she knew she couldn’t remain in a horizontal position with this man for more than five minutes without wanting him. And frankly, she didn’t have an ounce of energy left.
Slipping out of the covers, she pulled on a T-shirt from a neatly folded stack of laundry on his bedside table. As she navigated her way to his kitchen, she found herself hoping Duke possessed the same good taste in coffee that he’d exhibited in wine.
The miniature grinder perched next to the coffee machine seemed like a good sign.
Within five minutes, she had a pot of mocha java brewing and two mugs waiting on the counter between the grinder and the answering machine. She could wake Duke up with the scent of great coffee, then jump him once she let him have a rejuvenating sip or two.
A perfect plan.
While she waited for the coffee, Amanda padded through the kitchen archway to admire Duke’s living room again. She ran idle fingers over the oak wainscoting, trailed curious hands over a bookshelf that looked handmade. For all of Duke’s modesty about the furnishings and decorating, Amanda knew he’d created half of this gorgeous setting with his own saw and a lot of talent.
Her eyes skimmed the titles in his bookcase—criminology textbooks and woodworking manuals—then alighted on the small television/VCR combo tucked in the shelf. Betting she’d find an old John Wayne flick in progress, Amanda turned on the TV.
The tape began to whir in the machine automatically, just as another machine beeped in the kitchen. Thinking her coffee was ready, Amanda reached for the television’s Power button then paused.
An awkward woman was in the process of unzipping a black satin dress on the screen.
Amanda froze, paralyzed with shock to see her long-ago destroyed videotape come back to life before her eyes. She watched, mute with hurt and betrayal as the flirt on the runway teased and taunted the viewer.
Through the thunderous pound of a heartbeat gone rogue, Amanda heard a man’s voice behind her in the kitchen. Ready to confront Duke about his flagrantly inappropriate viewing material, Amanda paused the tape, the image freezing mockingly on the screen. But when she turned, she was surprised to see the kitchen was empty. The light on the answering machine blinked, however, as the voice of Josh Winger boomed through the room on full volume.
“I’ve got dirt on Clyde Matthews—” the voice announced as she wavered between kitchen and living room.
Still reeling from her discovery in the living room, she couldn’t make her feet move. Even if her feet had been cooperative, she would have had to be a saint to have walked away from that message. And despite ten years of Catholic school, Amanda didn’t even come close.
Josh’s voice continued, “…some IRS figures that don’t look right, but you’ll have to tell me what you think. Give me a call when you get in.”
In some back corner of her mind, Amanda noticed the coffee had finished brewing. With numb hands, she reached for the pot and filled the two cups she’d left on the counter.
She’d scarcely had time to mentally process what it meant to see a copy of her video in Duke’s VCR. And now this?
Duke and Josh had been investigating her father. Did that make her evidence? An informant?
Or just sickeningly naive?
Regardless, Duke had betrayed her trust with the video. Quite probably in his investigation as well.
Cold settled in the pit of her belly. Her first instincts told her to flee, but she was no longer listening to the woman who hid behind her designer outfits.
No matter what the tabloids said about her father, no matter how many pictures the paparazzi had snapped of him with an arm slung around various gangsters, Amanda believed in her father’s innocence.
He might not have won father of the year by sending her off to boarding school after her mother died. Amanda had been equipped with nothing but a damn sewing kit, for crying out loud. But his heart had always been in the right place. He’d spent the summers making up lost time, painstakingly showing her over and over how to piece together the tiny skirts she’d wanted to make for her dolls.
Her father might be too much of a showman. He might be too immersed in his art to pay attention to politics or being politically correct. But he was a good man.
Unlike the dishonest, deceitful guy she’d spent the night with.
Again.
She marched over to the television and stabbed the Eject button off with one finger. Armed with a video and a cup of coffee, she negotiated the stairs, ready to face Duke.
A man who happened to be a lying, two-faced detective who wouldn’t ever have the chance to walk out on her again.
Because after one final encounter to settle the score, Amanda planned to slam the door behind her on the way out of his life.
DUKE SMILED BEFORE he even opened his eyes. The scent of mocha java teased his nose, while the warmth of the sheets beside him reminded him who had gone to the trouble to cater coffee to his bedside.
He couldn’t think of a better way to wake up.
Well, maybe one other way. But he could convince Amanda to try out that method with him another day.
“I need to speak with you.”
Amanda’s all-business voice shattered his fantasies, forcing his eyes open immediately. She was fully dressed, right down to the golden dragon pin decorating her blouse. Her hair was already folded and twisted into submission at the back of her head. She thumped his coffee down on his bedside table and took a healthy step backward.
“What’s the matter?” He sat up, keeping a corner of the sheet around his hips in light of her mood. “You don’t like mocha java?”
“First of all, let me apologize for making myself too at home here this morning. In the time it took me to make a pot of coffee I ended up both hearing and seeing things I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.” She’d retreated to her boarding school manners, the ones she’d used to keep him at a distance that first day at Gallagher’s apartment.
Only now, she wasn’t hiding behind a trench coat. Oh no. Amanda looked very ready to do battle.
And he had the uncanny feeling her first victim was going to be a certain naked detective.
She withdrew one hand from behind her back and slapped an unmarked videotape on the bed. “Hope you enjoyed the contraband, Detective, because I guarantee it’ll be the last time you see this woman naked.”
A thousand curse words exploded through his brain as he realized what an ass he’d been. He’d been sleeping away, dreaming of slow morning sex with Amanda, while she’d been making him coffee and getting the rudest awakening of her life.
Why couldn’t he have told her about it last night? He’d thought about it when they’d toured the living room, but he had wanted to wait until after they’d had a chance to talk. Once Amanda set her sights on seduction, however, he’d forgotten every freaking good intention he’d ever had.
He was struggling to frame an apology that didn’t sound totally insufficient when she spun on one high heel and stalked out his bedroom door.
“Amanda, wait.” He snagged a fistful of clothes from the stack on his nightstand and fumbled his way i
nto a pair of shorts.
He tore down the stairs, amazed she could have put so much distance between them already in the spike heels she liked to wear. She tugged the strap of her purse up on her shoulder and reached for the door.
Duke levered it shut with one arm, inserting himself between her and the exit. “I’m sorry.”
Standing face-to-face with her, he could see the pulse jumping in her neck, feel the subtle tremble of a body on fire with hurt and anger. God, he hadn’t meant to do that to her.
“Amanda, I copied that tape at the station automatically, before I even saw what was on it. It’s a standard procedure.”
“Is it standard procedure to bring home your copies for private viewings? You certainly didn’t bother to tell me that when you were acting like Mr. Honorable giving me my original tape back.” She reached around him to grip the doorknob.
He had no choice but to let her go. He wasn’t about to add holding her against her will to his list of infractions this morning.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t follow her.
Not wasting a second, he tied the drawstring on his running shorts and plowed through the door behind her. “It was an unethical thing to do,” he admitted, clawing his way into the T-shirt he’d grabbed from the laundry pile. He bumped into the urn full of purple flowers on the stoop on his way outside. “And I had every intention of locking that tape in a desk drawer until after Gallagher’s sentencing and then tossing it or giving it back to you. But I swear, Amanda, I couldn’t get any work done at the precinct knowing that tape was in my desk. I saw the damn thing in my mind all the time, even before I caved and hit Play.”
“You should have told me about it,” Amanda shot over her shoulder, clicking her way down the quiet Brooklyn street. “It was a damned rotten thing to do, but I could have gotten over it if it weren’t for one other thing. You can only betray my trust so many times, Duke. Maybe your grandfather shared this little bit of wisdom with you—‘fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’”
Following her down his street, Duke winced as he stepped on something sharp. Too bad he hadn’t found time to grab his shoes. He limped after her, damn certain he wouldn’t see her again if he didn’t pursue her now. “There’s more?”